


Our Demons

by BlueBoxDetective



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2020-01-31 18:42:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18597196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueBoxDetective/pseuds/BlueBoxDetective
Summary: Quickly he his taking your arm and asking you to point the flashlight at the inside of your elbow.You do, and what has been barely visible in the dim light becomes clear. There is no way for anyone to miss the countless lines in different shades of purple and white.





	Our Demons

**Author's Note:**

> Warning:  
> This fic involves the topic of past self harm. There is no specific description of it and there is no mention of acute self harm. This work focuses on comfort/acceptance. Still, if you feel like you might be affected by the topic, consider if you really feel well enough to read this fic.
> 
> Please keep in mind that English is not my native language. I apologize for any mistakes I made.
> 
> Supernatural is a trademark of Warner Bros. Entertainment Inc., all rights reserved. My story is only shared for the enjoyment of others and is not intended to get myself any advantages or to create the feeling that the characters are my own.

“Blood. She needs clean blood!“  
In your opinion Dean is sounding extremely indifferent for what he is asking for. And for where you are at the moment.  
Your surroundings are dark and damp. The boards in front of the cellar windows let few rays of sun through. That's why you're holding a big flashlight for Dean, pointing at the limp body on the floor that he is hovering over.  
“What does clean mean in this case?“ You question, coming closer.  
“Not infected with Thesaureian blood would be a good start,“ the hunter answers sarcastically. You know he doesn't mean it that way, but sometimes his voice makes you feel pretty stupid and useless. You're doing you best considering you only joined him and Sam a few month ago.  
Dean gets to his feet and rummages in his nearby duffle bag.  
“You able to draw blood?“  
“No?“ Your answer is more of a question, why would you have to draw blood if Dean is with you? It becomes fairly obvious when the hunter places a syringe in your hand and rolls up the plaid shirt on his left arm.  
“Well, get ready to learn it.“ Calmly he holds out his arm in front of you, but before he is able to tell you what to do you protest:  
“I'm not gonna poke a needle into your arm until I luckily hit a blood vessel!“  
“You have to, it's only us two around here and we don't know how much time we have. Come on, I can take it.“ Dean tries to joke, but he apparently isn't to happy about the idea either.  
“You can draw blood!“ You have seen him do it before, Dean definitely has some medical knowledge. You try to give the syringe back.  
“Yeah, but not from my own arm,“ explains the hunter with just a hint of impatience, “I'd have to take yours.“  
It has you hesitate a moment. You look at the syringe, the bare arm that Dean isn't holding out anymore, and quickly at your own arm, covered by your sweater. Nervously you bite your lip, considering your options.  
“We don't have a lot of time,“ Dean reminds you. Wordlessly you shake your head, put the syringe in his hand and pull your sweater over your head. Holding your arm out for Dean you watch his face closely when he leans forward. Insecurely you frown when he stops his motion for a second as his gaze falls on your arm, but you would have missed it if you had blinked. You feel how blood rushes to your cheeks. Quickly he his taking your arm and asking you to point the flashlight at the inside of your elbow.  
You do, and what has been barely visible in the dim light becomes clear. There is no way for anyone to miss the countless lines in different shades of purple and white. Dean neither looks directly or mentions them.

///

It hadn't been much trouble afterwards. Your blood had quickly worked and the woman - Anna, you learned - had woken up. When you and Dean had dropped her of at the hospital Sam had already taken care of the responsible monster. The drive back to the bunker had been awkward. You didn't know what Dean thought and the hunter himself didn't say anything. Some voice in your mind wanted you to just take your belongings and run away. But you didn't. After dinner you hid behind a book in your room, regretting your decision to give your own blood and not at least trying to take Dean's.

Half an hour later there is a knock on your door and Dean comes in. You close your book but keep it in your lap, maybe your shield, maybe your hide, but most definitely something to hold on to. The hunter sits down on the edge of your bed, his elbows on his legs and a piece of paper in his hand. For a while, neither of you speak, and you feel your heartbeat racing.  
“Here,“ Dean eventually says hoarsely and hands you the thing in his hand. It turns out to be an old picture, one edge folded and the colors already fading. It shows a teenage boy in front of a lake, smiling at the camera.  
Dean explains: “I was about sixteen, maybe seventeen years old. When I got angel-healed they all disappeared. Just wanted you to know I get it.”  
You stare at the picture. The boy is smiling, maybe on a fishing trip, a holiday. He's wearing blue jeans and a t-shirt in a pastel yellow; hands buried in his pockets. Young Dean's hair is longer than it is today, and wind is tugging at it. But if you look closely, and you do now, his left arm is covered in thin lines, many, too many to count. Just like your arms are.  
Looking up you meet Dean's eyes. Even though his face is unmoved, his eyes show flashes of different emotions. Shame. Worry. Resignation. You have to clear your throat before you're able to speak:  
“I'm sorry.”  
“Don't be,” the hunter shakes his head, “it's part of who I was. And of who I am today. I just wanted to let you know... I get it. We all have our demons to fight.”  
You nod, looking at the photo again. “Thanks,” you whisper, feeling somewhat relieved. He understands. He doesn't lecture you, he doesn't take it personally. He doesn't pressure you.  
“I hope you know this already, but you can talk to us. Me and Sammy, if there's something on your mind. We won't judge.” For how much Dean usually avoids talking about feelings, this is actually pretty unusual and you know. That makes your voice even more sincere when you answer: “I really appreciate that, thank you.”  
Dean gets up and you hold out the picture. The hunter shakes his head.  
“Keep it. Look at it when you feel bad. It'll let you know you're not alone.”  
Before he is out of the door he turns around one last time:  
“All I'm asking is for you to keep fighting.  
Always keep fighting, okay?”  
“I promise,” you whisper, and you mean it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for taking the time to read this fic. It was loosely inspired by the following post:  
> https://www.pinterest.de/pin/586664288935837611/
> 
> If you are affected by the topic of self harm: Know you are not alone and always keep fighting. You can get through this, even though it is hard. I believe in you.


End file.
